


Every Breath

by Highflyer



Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon, Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries (TV), Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Super Mysteries - Franklin W. Dixon & Carolyn Keene
Genre: Angst, Mystery, Other, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-20 15:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highflyer/pseuds/Highflyer
Summary: Fairy Tales will have us believe that the good guys always win, that justice prevails, and that everything works out in the end. This, however is no fairytale!





	1. Chapter 1

#  **Prologue - Ye Hath No Faith, The Shadows Be Damned.**

 

**Date: Unknown**

**Time: Unknown**

**Location: Unknown**

 

_ Thump-thump. _

Gravel crunched under worn sneakers. Crumbled pieces found their way into the soles, cutting deep into unprotected feet. The snow was so cold it burned. Harsh breaths burned empty lungs, forcing him to stumble through the terror.

_ Thump-thump. _

His heart beat wildly, threatening to rip itself from its cage. Bile rose, filling his mouth and nose with an acrid taste. Ears filled with cotton and coagulated blood. He wondered how he could hear them. Those gut-wrenching  _ thumps _ .

_ Thump-thump. _

Even as he cut through back alleys, backyards, parks… It just got louder and louder until it felt as though those footsteps were connected to his very being. 

_ Thump-thump. _

He entered the forest. There was nowhere else to go; every street traipsed, every inch explored. He couldn’t hide, couldn’t run for much longer. Blood seeped from his temple, still gushing despite the cold. Consciousness lay fleeting.

_ Thump-thump. _

Trees clawed out as he passed, roots hooked over the tops of his feet. In a last bid for freedom, he hid in a nearby hollow. He tried to ignore the spatters of blood marring the nearby snow. He tried to ignore how his body trembled from cold and indescribable pain. The sounds had died the moment his weary body found refuge, bringing light to new hope. 

_ Schluck. _

His mouth agape in an airless scream, he brought a hand to rest above his neck, halted only by the protruding knife. Watery eyes blinked in disbelief, gasps forgotten. 

A hulking shadow made itself known. Its darkness consumed him.


	2. Copper Thoughts Marry Fear.

**Date: Friday, 13 / 10 / 2013**

**Time: 1:00 am**

**Location:** **_The Rouge_ ** **, Bayport, NY**

 

Darkness cocooned my body, softly goading me to sleep. My bed was a safe haven I denied myself, instead choosing the chilled hardwood floor. It grounded me, as obvious as it sounded. The cold seeped deep into my bones, making them heavy and stiff. Sleep echoed through me like a distant memory. The restful slumber my body so desired sank me further into the floor. It teased at me, blurring my eyesight in and out of focus; a temptress in the night.

Like soft beams of moonlight, it left me yearning. Unsatisfied. 

My wishes for peace unfulfilled, I rose. The walk to my desk felt an eternity, when in reality it comprised of mere feet. Soft light emitted from my computer. It illuminated my face as I crumpled into my seat, stabbing into the nerves connecting my eyes to my brain. It all felt too much, but I knew it wasn’t enough to shake my resolve. 

My phone’s unceasing vibrations only proved so.

  
  


**Date: Friday, 13 / 10 / 2013**

**Time: 7:00 am**

**Location: Outskirts of Morton Farmhouse, Bayport, NY**

 

The woods echo with familiarity. With only a short walk from my childhood haunt, a dreamlike serenity cloaked my hunched shoulders.

I remember coming here in my youth; whether it’d been swimming in the nearby lake, or the abyss I’d associated with the undead reaching forth from the ground to make me one of them. Out of habit, my gaze jumped from tree to tree, pinpointing the hollows which my mind’s eye used to believe housed hungry eyes. A smile twitched my lips upward. I’d thought those eyes would eat me in my sleep.

These senseless fears dreamt by a child’s innocence urged me to avoid the woods, especially after dark. I remember a time where my brother, always the brash-type, would syphon enough bravery for the two of us. His courage would fuel my curiosity. What secrets did these woods hold? What lay buried under mounds of dirt and decayed leaves? Skeletons? Zombies? Rotten apples? One of Joe’s favourite jokes were about us forming our own Scooby Doo gang. He’d say we’d be famous with our exploits, all recorded for rewatch value, even if it were just about us finding mouldy apples.

My ghost of a smile fell, until all that remained was a chiselled frown.

I love my brother. Joe means everything to me, but deep down I feel I could never mean anything to him.

Not if he could leave me.

Not if he could abandon everything we ever worked for.

I love my little brother, but he isn’t here. He hasn’t been for eight months.

I can’t help but wonder if it was my fault.

An adult now, I stand stilted within childhood shadows. My demons reach up to embrace me, coaxing me with their blackened husks. Off-note, my wandering mind recalls a poem by Robert Frost,  _ Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening _ . My mouth forms the silent words, lifting the piece from its buried tomb. I let them swirl.

_ The woods are lovely, dark and deep… _

A chilled breeze brushes against my ears, goosebumps forming along my flesh. I can never understand why that line strikes me; why it causes my heart to stutter, or my breath to freeze in my chest. The woods… Their darkness was never lovely. It only carried despair.

It was the kind of despair a child can smell from a mile away. The kind that would make them run under their bed for cover, wishing it all away by starlight. 

I can’t wish this away, though. I lived, no,  _ thrived _ here in the darkness. This despair was always a part of me. Today, it’s merely changed form. 

Pegs and rolls of red string mark out evidence zones. Forensics already stood in their van, processing images and samples for the case. Local police scoured the area as a basic defense mechanism, in case the perpetrator came back while we unfolded the scene. The comfort I felt from familiar earthen smells died as a thick metallic miasma flooded my senses. I almost coughed. 

This case had originally been assigned to my father. Dad was in Thailand, though, working another case. Chief Collig’s choice to call me was more out of respect for my father than for my personal skill in detective work. Truth be told, I didn’t like murder cases. Mysteries are my passions, my dreams; my yearnings to shed light upon the unknown. Murders are…  _ grey _ in nature, detailing life unjustly ripped from existence. Their misfortune wasn’t the ideal form of income I prefered. 

However… There remains the guilty pleasures within my mind as I solve these crimes. The notion of being better,  _ smarter _ than the perpetrators. The thrill of danger as another enemy knows my name,  _ tastes _ it on their tongue as they glare through police cruiser windows. To destroy their veils of deception, thinning the paint in which they’ve coated their lies… 

The police rely on me, my skills, my talents; they rely on the detective within me to uncover buried truths saturated by their stilted logic. They rely on my addiction for truth behind mystery.  _ My addiction for success _ .

The pressure weighs like a freight truck upon my shoulders, curdling my stomach uncomfortably even as I stand observing the scene before me. Tension builds behind my brows, blurring my vision for a brief moment. A few quick breaths brought me back to reality. It never used to be that bad…

Regardless, I shook off the itch crawling up my spine. There was work to do.

The deceased -  _ Simon _ , I remind myself - was found late last night. The images emailed to me depicted a husk framed by decaying flora, as though nature wished to swallow its latest prize with the care of a three-year-old stomping through mudpiles. If I were completely honest, it unnerved me how still he looked…

A sleeping man twitched. They breathed, they hummed and they mumbled. Death coats the body, stealing its heartbeat, its  _ soul _ . My heart always stalled a little when I was called out on these cases. It clenched, reminding me how I was next; how each ‘mastermind’ I foiled brought me closer to an early grave. The next murder may as well be my own.

Through the fog of anxiety that had clenched my heart tight, I huffed. The action brought me back to the scene, allowing me to crumple my morbid musings and toss them toward the ever-growing pile in the back of my mind. I couldn’t get distracted now. 

Simon’s corpse was more interesting than me lying in a pool of my own blood any day. 

Taking my time to collect evidence, I went through what I’d memorised of the case file. Simon Perry, aged 23 at time of death. Med student, attended Amity University. His grades were good enough to graduate at the top of his class, maybe even score a surgeon’s position on the way out. Everything checked out; normal  _ friends _ , normal  _ life _ , normal  _ secrets _ … 

_ Abnormal _ death.

In all my years in this profession, the natures of abnormal deaths in the face of normal lives often led to an underbelly rotten and gouged through with at least a thousand knives. I just hoped whoever gutted our boy Simon didn’t have gasoline to burn away the evidence.

No linking evidence was found on the body, no witnesses at the time of murder, and the only residents were the Mortons, who were out of town or working long shifts on the other side of town. We’re chasing a ghost. One with enough sense to wear gloves as they shoved a generic kitchen knife through Simon’s neck. It bothers me how the head was attached to the shoulders by nothing more than the thinnest layers of skin.

_ Chet would be impressed _ …

Thinking of my best friend brought churning guilt to the pits of my stomach.

He’d never finished college; said it wasn’t him. Instead, his love for food and business acumen wove to found a successful catering business. The farmhouse, our old hangout, transformed into a prep station, allowing him easy access to a fully-furnished kitchen and fresh produce for his meals. 

I still remember lounging during summer nights on the front porch, surrounded by everyone. Joe, Callie, Chet, Tony, Phil, Biff…

_ Iola _ …

Eighteen months. She died eighteen months ago. It still crushes the cavity where my heart should be. That bomb had been for Joe and I, but she’d gotten there first. The pain for her loss tore my brother to shreds, knowing we could’ve stopped it months before it had gotten to that point. Even capturing the terrorist behind her death offered no respite.

Iola dying had been easy; as fast as a candle being snuffed out. It was living every minute afterwards, guilt gnawing at our souls…

Some days I wish it would just shatter me completely.

We all dealt with it our own ways. 

While I silently suffered in the recesses of my mind, Joe transferred final year to a college in London, moving out to attend in-person. He claimed he needed the air, the new scene… Iola’s grave…

He couldn’t even look at me when he’d said that. 

The stab of pain through my chest brought me back to reality. While his leaving struck me hard, the betrayal still tender, I was needed here in the now. I can’t afford to get trapped in memories of being with my brother. I can’t let myself wish him here when I need him most. 

Falling snow catches my attention. Displeasure tilts my lips downward; snow always marred the evidence, no matter how fresh. In any case, there’s a slim chance I’d find evidence the police missed. It’s fortunate my purpose here wasn’t solely for evidence. By setting foot here, I’ve openly started my hunt. By openly discussing the case atop the corpse’s final abode, my place among the investigation is solidified, respected and crucial to this mystery.

Regardless, I hate the winter. Everything froze over into blinding white while my blood chilled beneath my clothes. It made me feel more miserable than I already was. 

Trudging through snow and packed ice, I let my presence wash over the crime scene. I stop just before the puddles of coagulated blood, my eyes roaming the area. My mind conjured Simon’s eyes boring through me. It resonated with all my bones, practically rattling me through the tendons, organs, veins and skin. My eyes morbidly drunk in the sight of brilliant red staining fresh white. It was almost too much, the sensations forcing a brief but sudden shudder that I fought to hide. This tainted innocence just brought me closer to my drowning despair. 

I set my toolkit down and claw through layers of snow. I’m not sure what I’m looking for; if anything I guess I’m just trying my luck. It had snowed last night and was quite windy now. Whatever morsels of evidence that once existed, by all accounts, should be either already collected or claimed by the elements. I comb the area where the body was found, making note of the indent where the corpse once lay. I take extra care around it, sifting through the snow as I silently question my own intelligence. Didn’t Bayport’s finest hit a brick wall in the evidence department? What am I hoping to accomplish here?

My self confidence dips with the temperature. I can’t feel my toes and my fingers have turned a strange hue of indigo. My fault, I think ruefully, I lost my gloves before the chill set in. I get up to leave hoping my car won’t stall.

I stop.

_ There _ .

It barely peeks through chunks of snow. Bits of brown and worn leather. I move to inspect it further, ignoring the people around me. My fingers are numb, but they still work enough to dig out the trinket. 

It’s a charm. Feathers make up the main accessory, being held together by tanned leather. There was flakes of red caking the ends of each feather, as though Simon’s blood wanted to lead me here. It was out of place here, belonging to this wintery wonderland about as much as the horror scene beside it. My mind chimed,  _ One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong _ . Good old Sesame Street. Big Bird’s song rings true once more.

With my tweezers, I gently retrieve the fragment and smell it. I am not sure which is colder, my nose or the fragment. It has a faint fragrance that I cannot discern. I carefully drop it into the evidence bag and seal it. I do a cursory search one last time before I decide to leave. I need to do something to chase the frost gathering on my bones before I became a  _ Frank-sicle _ .


End file.
